


Five Years and a Handful of Bullets

by crimsonmuzzle, eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Competency, FBI Agent Derek Hale, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, First Son Stiles Stilinski, Frottage, Human Derek Hale, Injured Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, President Sheriff Stilinski, Roommates, Undercover Cop Derek Hale, injured derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 04:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonmuzzle/pseuds/crimsonmuzzle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: "What happens when we graduate?"Erica's quiet for a minute, and Derek canfeelher pity-gaze from hundreds of miles away.  "Then you make a clean break.  You know how hard this life is on relationships.  They barely survive as it is; you definitely can't keep one up long-distance.  Have fun with your boy, but don't get attached."Derek stares out the window of the little dorm room he shares with Stiles at Quantico, not seeing anything beyond his own troubled expression.  "It might be too late for that."Or, the First Son FBI Agent Stiles/FBI Agent Derek AU you didn't know you needed in your life.





	1. 5 Years Ago - Quantico, VA

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SterekReversebang2018.
> 
> Special thanks to crimsonmuzzle for inspiring me with her amazing art!
> 
> Thanks also to my tireless beta team of [leela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leela) and [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend).

** 5 Years Ago - Quantico, VA **

 

"Are you— Are you _laughing_?" Derek half-growls into his cell phone, eyebrows drawn so close together on his forehead in his irritation that the muscle there spasms in pain. 

The voice on the other end, smooth and just a little husky, washes over Derek, somehow both increasing his irritation and still managing to make him smile. 

"Oh, hmm, I wonder why. Let's see, you leave me partner-less here in the City to run off and join the fucking _feds_ —"

"Oh please," Derek huffs, interrupting Erica, "like you're not thrilled beyond measure to get partnered with Boyd."

"When I said I wanted him as a partner, I meant in bed, dumbass, not on the job. How the hell am I supposed to sex him up without getting pulled into HR now, huh?" For all her bitching, Erica sounds absolutely delighted by the challenge.

Damn, it's good to hear her voice. Derek would have said that, too, but she's already off again.

"Then, you get roommated up with a fresh-faced twink straight out of college, bitch and moan for a week about how he only got in because he _knows people_ only to have said twink beat you in every level. And _now_ ," she says, a burble of laughter hiccupping in his ear, "you're all confused and upset because you just realized he's _hot_ and exactly your type and you wanna make sweet, sweet love to him."

Derek scowls down at the floor. "Are you done yet?"

"Oh, _honey._ No." The sound of velcro ripping comes down the line, and Derek knows Erica is getting comfortable after a long shift. 

He'd feel bad about taking up her down time, but they've been friends too long for her not to just hang up on him if she didn't want to talk. 

"Here's what you do," she says, the sound of her popping open a can distinct in the background. "You figure out if he's interested — which, it's you, so the answer is very likely yes even if he's otherwise straight — and if he is, you spend the next nineteen weeks screwing his brains out. That'll at least level the playing field on your classroom assignments. Your range scores are all on you, buddy."

"We haven't been to the range yet," Derek mutters, but he can't stop the next words from escaping him. "What happens when we graduate?"

Erica's quiet for a minute, and he can _feel_ her pity-gaze from hundreds of miles away. "Then you make a clean break. You know how hard this life is on relationships. They barely survive as it is; you definitely can't keep one up long-distance. Have fun with your boy, but don't get attached."

Derek stares out the window of the little dorm room he shares with Stiles, not seeing anything beyond his own troubled expression. "It might be too late for that."

* * *

The whistle is piercing, more so because it's coming from right near his ear. Derek doesn't bat an eye, but it's not like anyone would have noticed anyway, the way Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. He tries to keep his lips from twitching, but from the dark look Stiles shoots him, he's pretty sure he failed.

"Hale, Stilinski," the combatives trainer barks out. "You're up!"

Derek's eyebrows shoot up, but he follows Stiles over to the middle of the mat and drops into the ready position. 

They've never been paired up for any of the hand-to-hand training before, but Derek probably shouldn't be surprised that it happened. Agent Finstock seemed to take great delight in mixing up the pairs physically, pitting bigger opponents against scrappy, smaller ones.

"Ready?" Finstock asks, and Derek dips his chin just as Stiles breathes, "Ready."

The whistle blows again, and it's _wild_. Stiles has obviously had some sort of training, martial arts or similar, but mostly he's a whirling dervish of pointy joints. Derek staggers back more than once, though he gets in his fair share of hits. It seems to go on forever, but then Stiles' foot slips a little on the mat and Derek's fast enough to take advantage, sliding in close for grappling. He gets his arms up and under Stiles', his feet in between, and it's just a matter of gravity then. His superior weight carries them to the ground, Stiles pinned beneath him.

It feels a bit like a dream, having Stiles under him, wrapped up secure in Derek's arms.

But of course, Stiles doesn't just _give up_. Oh no, he's still squirming, his lean body a live wire in Derek's grip and his ass pressing back and up into Derek's groin. Thankfully, he's wearing a cup, but he can still feel himself start to react. His brain goes a bit off-line for a few seconds, because his face is buried in the back of Stiles' neck, and he's breathing in the clean musk of Stiles scent. It's affecting him in ways he really can't afford to deal with right then, not with their entire class standing around watching. 

And definitely not with Stiles slithering around under him, managing somehow to get one foot on the inside with a clear intention to use its power to flip them both. 

With a grunt, Derek hooks one elbow around Stiles' neck, squeezing even as he relaxes all of his remaining weight, his body a heavy blanket suffocating the leaner man beneath him. It takes longer than he thought it would, and he keeps checking with their trainer to see if he's giving the stop signal, but eventually Stiles taps out. Derek lets go immediately and rolls to the side, making sure to land face-down for _reasons_ , taking a minute to just breathe even as he hears Stiles recovering beside him. 

When he's finally ready, Derek pushes up and gets his legs under him, wincing a little at the muscles that are already complaining. Then he reaches down and offers a hand to Stiles, who grabs it with a grin and a, "Thanks, dude."

Only once Stiles is on his feet, he doesn't let go, just keeps pulling until they're chest to chest, his dark eyes searching Derek's face for a long minute before that grin turns into something a little… different. Then he lets go, smacks Derek on the ass, and jogs back over to the line. 

"Good game, Hale!" Stiles calls out, and there are a few chuckles from their classmates, but mostly everyone is focused on Finstock and the clipboard in his hand.

"Freemont, Destin! You're up."

* * *

The muffled sound of the shower greets Derek when he opens the door to their room after returning from hand-to-hand. Stiles beat him back, which isn't surprising since Derek had stayed behind to show one of the guys a better way to break an arm bar hold. And maybe he'd stayed behind on purpose, the memory of that last, searching look Stiles had given him making him panic a little inside.

Derek's in the middle of some light stretches when the bathroom door opens, letting a cloud of steam into the room. The shower's still running, and he's about to say something about that when Stiles scurries into their shared bedroom, his eyes darting around while he mutters to himself. 

His gaze passes over Derek once, like he doesn't see him, and then bounces back a second later. Stiles' eyes go wide and his hand drops to the towel that's barely clinging to his waist. 

"I, uh. Shit. Sorry. I need more soap."

Derek nods, not really paying attention because Stiles isn't just mostly naked, he's also _wet,_ and his towel is doing nothing to hide the way his dick is tenting the material. An image of Stiles in the shower, one hand braced against the wall while the other slowly works over his length, springs fully-formed to Derek's mind and suddenly he finds himself catching up quickly in the arousal department.

Derek doesn't intend to lick his lips, but it happens. And Stiles _notices_ because he's really fucking good at noticing things and putting clues together.

He's reaching for his black toiletry bag when he stops, his fingers curling against air as his hand drops to his side. The other one, still clutching his towel, clenches, making the material gape a bit.

Derek manages to pull his traitorous eyes away from that tantalizing peek of pale, mole-spotted thigh, but he only gets about halfway up Stiles' chest before he notices the way Stiles' nipples are pebbled on his chest. The groan that slips out is unintentional, and Stiles could at least _act_ like he didn't hear it, but instead his hand relaxes its grip and the towel slips free.

It catches for a second on his dick, but gravity is a bitch and suddenly Derek has nothing blocking Stiles' body from his view. 

"Oh, fuck," Stiles whispers. And then, "Please don't kill me. Or report me for sexual harassment. I just…" He stumbles closer to Derek then, his hands seeming not to know what to do as they open and close at his sides.

Derek steps forward, meeting Stiles halfway, and his hands slip on Stiles' skin the first time he grabs for him. He grips tighter, pulling a bit harder than necessary so Stiles lets out a little 'oof' when their chests collide, but they figure themselves out fast enough.

The first kiss is tentative, like Derek isn't the only one too aware of the many ways this could all go wrong, but the second and third kisses are progressively dirtier until Stiles' fingers are pulling at Derek's damp t-shirt and his waistband simultaneously, making angry noises into Derek's mouth. It makes Derek smile, which ends the kissing enough for Stiles to get even more vocal.

"It's not fair," he gasps, fingers pinching Derek's side. "Take your fucking clothes off."

But Derek's got both hands on Stiles' ass and really doesn't want to let go, so he just rolls his hips instead of complying, which makes Stiles buck against him, a high, broken noise punching out of him. The noise turns into more words, curses interspersed with further demands for mutual nakedness, but Derek's not really paying any attention to them because Stiles' neck has absorbed all of it. It's long, and there's a tendon there that he wants to nibble on, so he does… and only his grip on Stiles' ass keeps them both from falling over when Stiles goes boneless.

Instead, it's more like a controlled slide onto a bed — Derek's — and then they're horizontal which is the _best_ position, really. 

"Hnngh god, oh fuck. Do that again." 

Stiles works Derek's shirt up until it's bunched under his armpits and then sets to work on wriggling Derek's shorts down in between lazy, grinding rolls of their hips while Derek concentrates on scraping his teeth over the side of Stiles' neck. He's got just enough coherence of thought to avoid leaving any lasting marks — he hopes; Stiles bruises easy, so maybe they can just blame it on today's training if anything shows up.

When both of their dicks are free, Derek feels Stiles wrap his hands around them both, squeezing and jacking until they're each making absurd noises, frotting against one another in abandon, chasing each other toward the finish line. Derek holds out a few seconds longer, but to be fair… Stiles was a good portion of the way there to begin with.

When they're both covered in each others' sweat and come, trying to catch their breath, Stiles turns to look at Derek a bit wide-eyed and says, "Fuck. I left the shower on." He's out of the bed in a flash, racing bare-assed into the bathroom to shut off the water.

Derek stretches, lazy and sated and laughing a little at Stiles' frantic race across the room. "Perfect. We can share the clean-up shower," he calls out.

He moves slowly, stripping on the way to the bathroom, but eventually gets there, leaning against the doorway of the bathroom to appreciate the view that Stiles makes in all his naked glory. Stiles is biting his lip and staring down at the bottom of the shower, a guilty flush on his cheeks.

When he notices Derek staring, he rolls his eyes. "What? You can't grow up in California and not be a little affected by the 'don't waste water' campaigns. It's in a constant state of drought. Wildfire is one of our _seasons._ " 

"I feel as though I should be anticipating a 'because my ass is so hot' comment or something." Derek reaches around Stiles and turns the shower back on before nudging Stiles under the spray and joining him.

"Dude," Stiles says, rolling his eyes even as he squirts shampoo into his hands and begins lathering _Derek's_ hair. "My ass is not better than… all this." His soapy hand travels down Derek's chest before returning to its task. "You owe me so much naked time."

Pleasure rises in Derek at hearing the clear appreciation in Stiles' tone. He knows how he looks, and he's used it to his advantage more than once, but there's something about the honest way Stiles looks at him that makes him want to puff up his chest and strut around proudly. It's a bit ridiculous, and he knows it, but he still can't help being pleased that his lover finds his body attractive.

Derek ducks under the water to rinse, then returns the favor, enjoying the feeling of Stiles' hair sliding between his fingers. He goes still, however, when Stiles asks, "Do we need to talk about this?"

Derek looks into Stiles' suddenly-serious eyes, absently wiping away a line of suds that's in danger of dribbling down Stiles' forehead. "You know the odds of us ending up anywhere near each other for our first assignments."

Eyebrows shooting up in hope, Stiles says, "I put in for California. What did you…?" His voice trails off, obviously seeing the answer in Derek's expression.

"New York or Pennsylvania."

Stiles rebounds like a champ. "Maybe they'll put us together anyway."

"Maybe," Derek allows, urging Stiles to rinse.

By the time Stiles' hair is clear of suds, he's wearing a hint of a pout. "Or maybe I should just be happy with what I've got. This isn't going to last past graduation, is it?"

Running his thumb over Stiles' collar bone, Derek shrugs. "I don't see how it can. I'm sorry."

A finger covers his lips, shushing him.

"Don't be sorry. You're right. It won't last. But we can enjoy the hell out of the time we've actually got."

So they do.

* * *

Stiles is already packing by the time Derek makes it back to their room, shiny new badge clipped to his belt. Derek slows to a stop, watching as Stiles looks up, the shirt in his hands crumpling when his fingers curl into the material.

Stiles tries on a grin that lacks the easy humor he normally displays before letting it go with a grimace. Clearing his throat, he says, "Agent Hale."

Even in this moment, the acknowledgement of his new title makes Derek's lips quirk up. Gratitude prompts him to offer the same peace to Stiles. "Agent Stilinski."

Stiles lets out a huff of breath, his eyes widening a fraction. "I can't believe it's over. I can't believe—"

Derek's across the room before Stiles can finish the sentence, taking his face in a firm, two-handed grip and pressing their mouths together. 

This is hard; harder than he'd expected, at any rate. He hadn't planned to get attached to anyone during training, but then he'd gone and fallen fast and hard for the man in his arms. The only hope he had at this point was that he'd be able to move on as easily.

He's got a new life and a new job waiting for him in New York with the Criminal Investigations Division and Stiles is going to be all the way across the country working with the Cyber Crimes Division. There's no way they're going to be able to keep this up.

It's best to make a clean break, and he knows it. But for now, he's going to let himself — let _them_ — have this. One last night to forget New York and California.


	2. 2 Years Ago -  New York City, NY

** 2 Years Ago - New York City, NY **

"You all know why we're here," Derek says, giving a nod of thanks to his former chief. It's odd being the one giving his old mentor orders, but he's the Special Agent _In Charge_ and that goes with the territory. 

Derek hits a button and the screen comes to life, showing grainy photos of four people and one box with a question mark. "This is going to be a long term op. We've got three agents and two NYPD officers going under. I hand picked every member of this task force because I trust every person in this room, and we can't guarantee that the Alphas haven't got dirty people on the inside of _our_ operations." He makes eye contact with every person, sees the trust reflected back at him and tries not to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of everything.

Looking down to his notes, he starts the brief. "To review: The Alphas are the heads of what used to be three very different crime syndicates. Kali Patel - street name Special K - used to be involved only in drugs. Ennis Davis' gang was into human trafficking. And then…" Derek taps on the question mark. "All we know about the person who brought the Alphas together is that they're known as 'Duke.' We know very little about them personally, but they have been running one of the biggest, most successful gun-running operations across Europe and the US since the 1980's. They are on good terms with the cartels, which makes our job more difficult."

"Taking out one of the minor heads of the hydra isn't going to cut it. The other two will absorb the territory and close ranks. We have to be smart about this. Our main objective is taking out Duke. Patel and Davis are smart and strong, but they don't have the history with the cartels, which is an advantage for us. The cartels will seize advantage and unwittingly help us destabilize Kali and Ennis' hold on East Coast operations."

A hand goes up. "Do we really want to give the cartels power here?"

Erica answers this one with a cackle. "Not our circus, not our monkey."

Derek bites back a grin at that. "Inter-op cooperation is the name of the game, people. Our sister ops that are working to bring down the cartels? They’re aware of how we're working this and are in full support. Our op should help them tighten the net on their own subjects. Are there any other questions for now?" When everyone just looks at each other but no one raises their hand, Derek nods. "All right, Agent Mahealani is sending information to each of your tablets. These are your personal assignments. If you _do_ have questions for me, I'll be here all night and my personal cell is…" Derek pushes SEND and twenty phones chime. "Right there."

The task force splits up into their assigned two- and three-person teams, reviewing their parts in the operation. They've been at it for hours when Derek looks up from where he's going over blueprints of the Alphas' compound with Erica and Special Agent Danny Mahealani as someone lets out a loud whoop. 

One of the plain clothes detectives turns on the television mounted to the wall and they all get to see the headline that John Stilinski has secured his place on the 2020 presidential ticket for the Democratic party. Something in Derek's chest loosens up.

John Stilinski is the kind of politician that comes along once in a lifetime. He's only been on the scene outside of his home state of California for about a year, but he's made waves with his 'takes no shit' attitude and his immovable stance on the issues he's built his platform on: police brutality and nationwide gun control. If he makes it to election day without some NRA nutjob putting a bullet in him, Derek will be surprised.

But the thoughts about politics are quickly wiped away when the television cameras zoom in on Stilinski, who's all wrapped up in a tight hug from his son. A son that Derek knows and recognizes, and holy shit! Somehow Derek never put it together before now, but right there on live television, with ticker tape still floating through the air, Derek sees Stiles Stilinski.

His old Academy roommate. The guy he still thinks about most often when touching himself, the guy who'd boarded a plane for Sacramento when Derek was still packing his bags for New York, his hair messy from Derek's fingers when he'd jokingly — and they'd both ignored how his voice cracked, turning it from humorous to sad — said, "Can I call dibs on getting to tell people I dumped you instead of the other way around?" The clean break hadn't been as clean as either of them had hoped for, and they still talked at least once a month, but the distance had taken its toll.

Stiles is _right there_ , larger than life on the national news, and Derek feels a pang of something in his chest.

He drops his eyes back to the blueprints, but his thoughts are too scattered now, he can't make sense of them anymore. "Let's take ten," he mutters and doesn't even wait for an acknowledgement before turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

He needs air. He needs—

"Derek. Hey, wait up."

Derek stops in his tracks, because that tone from Erica, even all these years later, will still make him obey. That's what happens when your partner is a sassy ass-kicking wonder.

"You all right?" she asks when she's drawn even with him. 

Derek tilts his head, indicating that he wants to walk while they talk. "Yeah, I'm okay. Or will be."

"What happened? You were as happy as the rest of us for a second and then you went all pale and shaken. I know you voted for Stilinski in the primaries, just like the rest of us, so what gives?"

Derek pushes open the stairwell door and doesn't even wait for Erica to power through it before he's taking the stairs two at a time. He needs _space_.

When they're finally out on the roof, the early evening sky a canvas of color, Derek turns to her and spreads his hands. He doesn't even know where to start with this. Okay, that's a lie. "Remember my roommate at the Academy?"

"Yeah? What, did you get him pregnant?" Her grin is wide and evil, and Derek loves her so much in that moment that his chest goes tight. 

Derek just shakes his head and says, "Have you ever heard Stilinski talk about his son?"

Erica gets it _instantly_ because she's smart like that. "Holy shit. Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , Derek! You nailed the president's kid!"

Derek wrinkles his nose, because that sounds really fucking awful considering their actual current President is a homophobic asshat who's only in the job because the guy he was vice president for got sent to prison. "He's not the—"

Erica rolls her eyes, interrupting him with, "Whatever. He _will be_ the president's kid."

"He's like twenty five now. He's not a damn kid."

"Twenty five? Wow, he really was young, huh?"

Derek shrugs, because he'd already told her all that, years ago. "What the fuck do I do, Erica?"

"You still in touch with him?"

"Yeah. We text occasionally."

"Seriously? How the fuck did this not come up?"

Derek knows from the way his ears are burning that he's blushing enough to give away the fact that their texts weren't exactly—

"Wooo! Oh shit! You were sexting the president's kid!" Erica is outright cackling at this point, and Derek doesn't even blame her. 

His _life_.

"Okay, so what you do is, you take some of those texts, and you forward them to your good friend Erica so she can share them with the tabloids and make _bank_." At his flat stare, she pouts prettily and flutters her lashes. 

"No."

"Fine, then. Be that way." 

Derek's phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to see a text. From Stiles.

"Oh my god, that's _him_ , isn't it? What's he saying? Is it a booty call?"

Derek waves her off and turns his back to open his messaging app. In the time it takes him to pull up his keyboard, he's already got two more texts.

 **Stiles, 20:42:** I'm in New York.  
**Stiles, 20:42:** So are you, last I heard.  
**Stiles, 20:43:** Beer?

Derek's fingers tap out a three letter response and then he locks his phone and shoves it down his pants into his underwear, just in case. He has sisters, he knows how to play this game.

When he turns back around, Erica is standing there with her arms folded and a pitying look on her face. "The fact that you think I won't go down your pants for it hurts, Derek. Makes me think you don't _know_ me. So?"

Derek knows that his smile could light up the whole of Manhattan and he doesn't even care. "So. The DNC was here, in the City. We need to finish up and go home because I? Have a date. With the president's kid."

* * *

Derek watches Stiles as he lifts a nearly-empty mug of beer, a small, bewildered grin on his face. Around them, the tiny, hole-in-the-wall pub is filled with people there to drink away the workday before heading home and starting it all over again.

"It almost kept me out of the Academy, you know," Stiles says before shrugging and downing the last swallow of his drink. "And the thing is, I'm almost certain he didn't expect to get this far. God, can you imagine?" He drags a hand down his face, meets Derek's eyes, and then laughs, loud and bright, head thrown back with it.

"This time next year," Derek murmurs over his own beer, "you could be the first son."

Stiles bites his lips closed, trying and failing to stop laughing even as his eyes fill with tears of mirth. "Shut… your asshole… mouth. Oh god. No, really, stop. My sides!" He clutches at them, continuing to giggle.

Another few moments go by while Stiles composes himself, shaking his head the whole time. "If the Bureau had known then what was coming, you and I would never have met. Can you imagine?"

Derek purses his lips, tilting his head as he allows himself to replay some of his favorite moments from their Academy days — all of which took place in their shared room, come to think of it. Thoughts of pale skin, lean muscles, and laughter dance around in his head as he stares, unblinking, at Stiles. "No, I really can't. Of course, I'm having a hard time seeing you as a dignified president's kid. Your dad seems nice, though. I think I might have to vote for him."

Stiles snorts. "Nice? Please. The man was a cop far too long to be nice. That's what got him into this, after all. All the police brutality that's been going on unchecked. It pisses him the fuck off; he takes it personally. Which, I mean, can't blame him there. It pisses me off too."

Jaw working, Derek nods his agreement. "It's gotten worse. There are days I want to turn in my badge, but then—"

"But then the only guys with badges would be the bad guys."

The quiet that descends upon them is broken only by the background murmur of the bar's other patrons. Then Stiles looks up, spears Derek with a long, contemplative look, and says, "So, you seeing anyone?"

Derek doesn't even try to stop the slow grin from taking over his face. "Not at the moment."

"Oh, thank fuck. Wanna get out of here?"

Signalling for the check, Derek leans forward, letting his gaze drag up and down the bit of Stiles he can see. "Thought you'd never ask."

Stiles' laughter rings out again, but this time there's a deeper edge to it that promises untold delight in Derek's future.

* * *

"Aww, hey," Stiles murmurs, one Uber-ride and a stumble up the stairs to Derek's apartment later, but his voice is pitched high and he's _cooing_. Also he's on his knees, which Derek isn't complaining about, but still.

There's cooing. 

"Are you fucking talking to my dick like it's a kitten." Derek would like to believe he pulls off the horrified and disappointed expression he's going for, but he's honest enough with himself to know that his lips are twitching and he's two seconds away from making grabby hands because… Hell. He’s _missed_ Stiles. He’s missed _this_.

"What?" Stiles asks, tilting his head back to give Derek full view of the shit-eating grin he's sporting. "I missed him."

And then he — gently, thank fuck — pats Derek's semi through the fly of his jeans. Because of course he does.

"Jesus Christ, get up here," Derek huffs, and helps Stiles up by grabbing him under the arms and hoisting until the little bastard is on his feet. And then, because he _can_ , he spins them so that he's pressing Stiles against the wall and sticks his tongue in Stiles' mouth because that’s the only tried and true method of shutting him up long enough to get their clothes off.

He only trips a little while trying to step out of his jeans, so he's able to catch Stiles when _he_ trips a lot, and they finally make it to the bedroom, where Stiles has to pull back to shoot a scandalized look at Derek's king size mattress. 

"Shit, man, are we even gonna be able to bang on that thing? I feel like I'll lose you. We've only ever done this on shitty twins before, after all."

Derek pressed up against Stiles' back, setting his teeth into Stiles' neck and growling a little as he tests the give of the tendon there, remembering how much Stiles used to love that back when they only had shitty twins to move around on. "Just means you need to hold on tight, doesn't it?" he whispers against the shell of Stiles' ear when Stiles' knees go fucking _weak_ and he sags in Derek's arms.

And then, in a move Derek really _wasn't_ expecting, Stiles does a perfect hip throw, tossing Derek into the middle of the bed and then pouncing. 

Crawling up on the bed in a way that he probably thinks is sexy, but is really just ridiculous — but _so_ ridiculous that it just circles back around to being sexy again, because _Stiles_ — Stiles wriggles his way between Derek's splayed thighs, shouldering them apart even as he takes time to kiss and nibble his way up from Derek's knees to his balls. Some of the nibbles are a bit more bitey than others, but hey, as long as he doesn't use his teeth on the precious bits, Derek has no complaints. And he really has everything but complaints when Stiles goes for broke and swallows him down in one smooth move, making Derek nearly jackknife off the bed at the perfection of it all. 

God, he'd forgotten this; forgotten the velvety sucking heat of the inside of Stiles' mouth, the tight grip of his throat around the head of Derek's dick. He hears a whimper and he's pretty fucking sure it came from him, but he's way too far gone to care. He has no idea if he's ever going to feel anything like this again, and there's no way he's wasting a second of it on trying to act cool.

But he also doesn't want to come, not yet, not like this. He wants Stiles with him, wants to fill his arms with the closest thing to a live wire he's ever going to touch. He knows he's not going to make it long enough to get inside Stiles, but he wants to _feel_ him when he comes.

He must make some kind of noise, something that alerts Stiles to the thoughts spinning around inside his head, because almost immediately Stiles is pulling off with a pop that nearly finishes Derek off right then and there.

"Come here," Derek says, already breathless. "Wanna feel you."

Stiles is still all knees and elbows, even now, and there are a few places Derek's gonna have bruises tomorrow, but who the fuck _cares_. Derek grabs him when he's close enough and pulls him into a kiss that starts out rough and hungry before gentling into something that makes Derek's throat feel too thick. So he rolls them over, gets a hand around them both, and starts rutting, pulling back far enough to whisper words of encouragement to Stiles. 

It's quick, it's over _way_ too fast, and soon enough Derek will hate himself for that because he knows he should have _savored_ this stolen moment. But right here and now, he can't bring himself to care, because somehow, in a trick of the universe, they're both coming together, their release combining even before it lands on their flushed, sweaty skin.

* * *

"So," Stiles says, three hours, two orgasms, and a water break later — _because dehydration is a_ thing _, Derek_ — "I've been reassigned to DC until at least after the election. Any chance I'll get to see you more often now that we're in the same time zone?"

Derek's heart fucking _leaps_ in his chest — it's embarrassing; he's way too old for such reactions — before plummeting back to earth. "I… can't. I mean, I won't have time to travel, but you can come see me anytime."

There's no judgment in Stiles' expression, but his eyes go a little cloudy and he drops them to where his fingers are tugging at Derek's chest hair.

It's heartbreaking, honestly, watching him try to work through what that means — and if he's just some easy lay for Derek — so Derek rushes to say, "I got put in charge of my first op."

Stiles' head pops up, his eyes bright and liquid with pride and excitement as he starts slapping Derek's chest. "What?! Oh my god! You did?! Holy shit, dude, that's amazing! What the hell? Why didn't you say anything? Holy fuck, Special Agent In Charge. Dude." The last dude comes out as an awed whisper and he's looking at Derek like he's done something profound.

It's a great feeling, even though Derek can feel the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose growing hot with a blush. "Yeah. I was going to call you tomorrow and let you know? I thought about calling you last week when they gave me the assignment, but it's been kind of rushed with trying to put together my team and I didn't have a lot of information to share. And I _know_ you and your twenty questions—"

"Try two _hundred_ questions—"

"—so I figured it'd be best to wait until after I had something worth sharing." Derek relaxes back against his pillow, eyebrows raised as he waits for Stiles to stop tripping over his own tongue.

"Well, I don't even know what to ask yet!" Stiles finally blurts out when the quiet has gone on a bit too long. "You're major crimes—"

"Criminal Investigation Division—"

"Same thing, asshole. So, what? Drugs? Oh god, you're not going after the cartels, are you?" The pleased pride slips into something too close to worry for Derek's peace of mind, but there's not a lot he can do about that. 

They both know the realities of their job.

"Actually, I'm heading a task force—

" _Task force?_ Derek!" And Stiles is slapping his chest again, which. Yeah. That doesn't actually feel awesome, so Derek traps his hands with his own and just holds onto them.

"A joint task force, actually, with the NYPD. We're trying to infiltrate and build a solid case against a group known at the Alphas. They've got their fingers in—"

"Gun running, human trafficking, and drugs. Jesus, Derek." The worry is all that's left now, but Derek can see the way Stiles is fighting it. "That's huge, man." His smile is wobbly, but at least he's trying.

"You know about them?"

"Kali Patel started out on the West Coast. Davis did too, but he wasn't as big an issue up north since his base was Arizona. I heard rumors that they were a couple for a while, actually."

Derek's eyebrows shoot up, because none of his intel had indicated that. "How reliable are those rumors?"

Tilting his head, Stiles considers this before shrugging. "As reliable as a rumor can get? I don't know, man, don't stake your life on it. But if you can use it to your advantage to weaken a link in that chain, take it."

"I will."

Things go quiet for a minute as Stiles lowers his head to Derek's chest, their fingers still tangled up a little awkwardly, but neither of them willing to let go. Stiles finally breaks the silence with a whispered, "Are you going under?"

"It's always an option, but for now, I've got a handful of other people we're inserting at various levels. Hopefully I can stay out of it, but you know how it goes. If the op stretches out, we'll have to rotate people and…"

"And you may be on one of those rotations."


	3. Present Day - Queens, NY

** Present Day - Queens, NY **

Derek watches Deucalion, watches the way the man meanders around the room, his pacing appearing to be mindless. Derek knows better, of course. He _knows_ that Deucalion is absorbing everything from the way the others have positioned themselves around the room to the way that one bulb flickers, just a bit. Derek's not sure _how_ he would know about that, but still. 

"What does this mean for our shipment?" Deucalion asks, his voice pleasant and calm, like he doesn't have a dozen ways to kill everyone in this room already mapped out.

Derek's eyes don't leave Deucalion, even as Kali answers him from where she's reclined on the red velvet sofa.

"We're still on schedule. The team has checked in regularly."

Someone shifts on the far side of the room, drawing Derek's gaze for a brief second. It's just Aiden, one of Deucalion's matched set of enforcers.

There's a television on in the background, some talking head or other droning on about the State of the Union address that's just days away. 

"Derek," Deucalion says, turning to him with a little spin, his smile just a bit too pointy to be believable. His cane, which had been silent all night, begins to tap against the hardwood floor. 

Tap.

Tap tap. 

Tap.

"Duke," Derek murmurs, inclining his head in a show of respect.

"How would _you_ handle this situation?"

Derek doesn't bother playing dumb or coy. This is a test; everything's a test with Deucalion. "It's always best to be cautious. Even if we've paid off —"

"We?"

Derek nods again. " _You_. You know you've paid off the right people, but you never know when the _wrong_ people are going to show up and introduce chaos into the plan."

Deucalion waves that away with a flick of his fingers. "And going forward?" He smiles, just a touch, and it's a real one this time. There's actual humor in there. "Where do you see this company in five years?"

Ah, _that_ situation.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about. This is still America, people are still wearing red hats and guzzling beer while spewing about the second amendment. Sure, President Stilinski has a lot of support on both sides of the aisle, but it takes more than signing a piece of paper to get people to _follow_ a new law. They'll be scrambling to buy up stock before 'Stilinski comes to take our guns,'" Derek affects a southern hick accent for that last bit, making Deucalion's lips twitch again, "but long term? He'll only be in office for four years."

"Hmm. The last one was only in office for _three_ years, and look at all the damage he caused." Deucalion takes another step, and Derek realizes that he's been moving steadily forward this whole time, getting closer and closer to Derek.

Derek doesn't flinch, much as he wants to. He just engages in the conversation until Deucalion's route takes him back out of reach of Derek. "He was only able to cause that damage because people let him. Well, right up until the impeachment proceedings." 

Deucalion nods, like this is something he hasn't thought about before. Which is a lie of epic proportions. The new president has made things around The Loft a bit tense the past few months. "I like you, Derek. Not just pretty, but smart too."

Kali laughs lightly and gets up from the couch to join them. "So pretty," she murmurs, running her hand over Derek's ass just to watch Ennis puff up, his nostrils flaring in anger. 

Derek would be pissed about the loss of his bodily autonomy, but she’s the only reason he's standing in this room at this moment. Kali had found him down on the docks, amongst her other drug mules, and taken a liking to his looks. He'd advanced quickly up the ranks then, until he became _her_ enforcer… Or at least her toy to play with whenever Ennis was around.

Apparently, Kali enjoys the kind of sex she has with Ennis when he's riled up with jealousy. 

There's a commotion at the door then, drawing Deucalion's attention which allows Derek to relax a bit and catch his breath. It's always unnerving to find himself the focus of Deucalion's intensity. 

It's Matt Daehler, a bit player in the drug- and gun-running empire the Alphas rule. He's grunting and muttering muffled curses as he literally drags another man into the room with him. The other guy appears to be holding his own, even as he sways a bit, like he's drunk or high or—

"What the fuck is this?" Derek asks, because it's a good question and no one's going to give him the side-eye for asking it.

The man Matt's struggling with looks up at the sound of Derek’s voice, recognition lighting up his flushed face even as he tries, too late, to shut it down. Stiles has always had an expressive face; it's one of the things Derek loves best about him. 

"Derek, dear." Kali's fingernails, filed to claw-like points, dig into the skin of Derek's neck as she grabs him by the back of it. "It appears you know our little friend." 

Derek raises one eyebrow in disdain, letting his usually stoic expression speak for him while his mind is going a million miles an hour trying to figure out how to get Stiles and himself out of this mess Daehler has created for them. It occurs to him as the silence starts to get heavier that he's going to have to talk and talk fast. 

Yeah, they're fucked. 

But he shrugs one shoulder, not as easy to do with Kali's nails drawing blood as it would be otherwise, and says, "I fucked him in a club once." When Aiden makes a tsk of disbelief, Derek rolls his eyes. "What, like you wouldn't? Look at that mouth." 

The way that draws Ethan's gaze to Stiles' lips makes Derek feel a little sick inside, but at least they're buying it. 

"Hmm." 

That thoughtful sound from Ennis makes Derek grit his teeth in frustration, then swallow down panic when Ennis adds, "Then why did he try to hide that he knew you? It's well known that he's an FBI geek. Maybe he knows something about you that we don't." 

Derek sneers at Ennis and shakes off Kali's hold, hissing as some of his skin shreds under her nails. "What? What could he possibly know about me other than the size of my dick? I wasn't even _with_ you when I fucked him. He was just some semi-famous twink I screwed in a club bathroom. Hey, kid. What do you know about me? Were you following me that night, hoping to get inside info on Kali before I was even working for her? Damn, you _really_ play the long game, huh?" 

"What _I_ want to know," Derek continues quickly, walking across the room to grab a bottle of water someone abandoned on a side table after a few sips, "is why Daehler is bringing him in here _now_. You definitely don't need more eyes on you right now, and there's gonna be at least three different alphabet agencies looking for the president's kid." Derek rips a good hunk off his shirt and wets it with the water before dabbing at the cuts on his neck. 

"That," Deucalion says, his voice edged with the sort of quiet malice that Derek has grown to dread, "is an excellent point." And then, without giving Daehler a chance to say anything for himself, Deucalion takes a gun from Ethan and puts a bullet between Daehler's eyes. 

Daehler's head flies back like he's been punched in the nose, even as his body just drops, strings cut. The way he lands would be wince-worthy, but he's dead, so it's not like he feels it. 

Deucalion gives Ethan the gun back and continues tapping his way around the room, because he's a dramatic fucker like that. 

"Holy shit," Stiles says, and there's a real quiver in his voice. "That's some Daredevil bullshit right there. Dude, are you just impersonating a blind guy? Because that's not cool." 

Deucalion stops walking and turns toward Stiles, his mouth curving up on one side. "It very much would not be 'cool' of me to impersonate a sightless individual. Rest assured, however, that no such social faux pas is happening here. I have been blind since birth. Thank you, Mr. Stilinski, for your championship of the disabled community." 

"Uh, sure thing. Hey, are you just gonna leave this guy here? I mean, he's bleeding all over the place. Jesus, this is unsanitary," Stiles mutters, inching away from the pool of blood that's creeping closer and closer to his feet. 

"While Mr. Daehler's timing was regrettable, there is nothing to be done about it now but play the hand we've been dealt. Kali, I would like you to take our dear Derek's cellular device and search it. Make sure he is telling us the truth. Ennis, I want you to begin drafting a statement for the President. It should be properly respectful; he is, after all, the leader of the free world. Let him know that we have his son. Additionally, we will be holding him to ensure proper cooperation on the President's part. We may be able to stop the current legislation, after all."

Stiles snorts, and Derek just wants to jump across the room and strangle him for drawing attention to himself. "Oh please, dumbass. My dad was a sheriff. He knows better than to bargain with a bunch of two-bit gangsters. Besides, do you really think he'll believe anything you say? _Anyone_ could have me."

Deucalion cocks his head again, and this time his smile is more of a toothy snarl. "True enough." The gun he uses this time is his own, and Derek's too far away to do anything but watch in horror as Deucalion points it at Stiles’ chest, holding it there for a long second, before dropping the muzzle and pulling the trigger.

The howl of pain coming from Stiles nearly makes Derek sag to the ground in relief. And shock. He was sure Deucalion was going to kill Stiles as coldly as he'd killed Daehler. But while Stiles is on the ground, his leg pulled to his chest, letting out pained whines, he's alive. 

"When you've written the note for the President, Ennis, do be certain to use some of Mr. Stilinski's blood to sign it. Drive the point home a bit."

"You could have taken a picture of me with today's paper, asshole! It's called proof of life!" Stiles' face is white with pain and there are tears in his eyes, but they're snapping in anger now too, which means Derek needs to find a way to shut him up. Fast.

He's halfway across the room, trying to decide whether a bitch slap or a gun barrel to the forehead would be more convincing, when Kali steps into his path. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she's smirking to beat the band. "Phone?" she drawls, freeing one hand just to hold it out palm-up, her fingers making a 'gimme' motion.

"This is ridiculous," Derek mutters, but reaches into his back pocket and produces his phone anyway. There's nothing incriminating on it, so he's not worried. "I only fucked him the one time."

"And apparently made quite the impression. What's the password?" she asks, already bringing it to life. 

"It's facial recognition," he says, and holds still while she points his front camera at his face.

It clicks on to his boring background and single page of apps, and Derek uses that opportunity to get away from Kali. 

Ethan steps into his path this time, and Derek just wants to say 'fuck it', grab Stiles, and shoot his way out of this clusterfuck of an undercover op. The only thing stopping him is the fact that one or the other of them will almost surely die if he does that, and while he's more than happy to risk his own life, he'll do just about anything to keep Stiles in one piece.

Well, in his _current_ number of pieces. Derek tries not to look at the now-mangled toe of Stiles' shoe, where blood is slowly dripping out onto the floor.

Ethan's hand on his arm draws Derek's attention back to him. "You should have told me you played for both teams. We've missed out on a lot of fun."

Derek doesn't bother holding back the bark of laughter that draws from him. "Yeah, no. You are not my type."

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Ethan's about to do something — probably try to beat the hell out of Derek for that insult — when Kali makes a frustrated sound.

"There's nothing on here," she says, waving Derek's phone around. "Why would you pay for this if you're not going to even have Candy Crush? Everyone has Candy Crush, _Derek_."

"What do you mean, nothing?" Ennis asks, walking up and taking the phone from her. "Are we on here?"

"Yeah, in his contacts. He has us saved as random white-people names. Duke is Sean Thornton, you're Biff Tannen, and I'm Annie Wilkes. Annie Wilkes, Derek? That's the best you can do?"

Stiles lets out a burst of laughter, and Derek kind of wants to join in, because it really was the fucking perfect name for her. 

"What's so funny, little man?" Kali sashays toward Stiles and digs the point of her boot into the remains of Stiles' shoe, making him let out a new screech of pain. She grins and goes to do it again, only to stop when Deucalion snaps out her name. Pouting, she turns on Derek. "Who's Annie Wilkes?"

"She's a character in a book. Everyone is. It would look suspicious if someone got hold of my phone and saw obvious code names. This way, they look like real names of real people."

"He knew it was a code name." Ennis indicates Stiles with a gesture.

"Probably because he knows she's not actually Annie Wilkes."

Tap, tap. "Sean Thornton was the lead character The Quiet Man, played by John Wayne. The Duke. Biff Tannen was the big fellow in Back to the Future. And Annie Wilkes was the psychopath in Stephen King's _Misery_ ," Deucalion says, and his voice has that edge to it again. "Check Mr. Stilinski's phone next, Kali. Smart is good, but something tells me our dear Mr. Reyes may be _too_ smart." 

Derek glances at Stiles then, but everyone else is looking at him so it's not noticeable. Thankfully Stiles doesn't make any weird faces at Derek's alias. He's too busy trying to keep Kali from stepping on his foot again. 

She really is a fucking psychopath. He'd chosen the name for her after watching her stab someone straight through the heart with a piece of rusted pipe. Right now, she's dancing all around Stiles, laughing huskily every time she gets close.

"Kali!" Deucalion's voice cracks across The Loft, and Kali rolls her eyes before demanding Stiles' phone.

To Derek's surprise, Stiles doesn't even try to keep it, just digs in his pocket for the device and hands it over.

Kali presses the home button, and frowns when nothing happens. "It's dead."

"It's not dead, you … _person_ ," Stiles says, obviously rethinking his first choice of descriptive term. "It's just off. I work in a secure building and the dead guy snatched me when I was walking out to my car."

"Where was your Secret Service detail?" Deucalion asks, and Derek is glad because that's a damn good question that _he'd_ like an answer to as well.

"Apparently dead guy had a friend on my team. Haigh. He told me all about how they were gonna split the reward for me. He really thought you were going to pay him top dollar for kidnapping me." Stiles shifts where he's sitting, trying to keep out of his _own_ puddle of blood this time, and lets out a pained grunt.

"Not to cast more suspicion on myself," Derek sighs, "but maybe someone should do something about his foot. The President isn't going to do _anything_ we want if his son dies from sepsis."

"Password?" Kali asks, and Stiles helpfully draws some random design on the screen. It opens with an electronic sound. "Oh for fuck's sake," she mutters an instant later, thumb moving as she scrolls through something on his phone. "Do you have some cutesy nickname for _everyone_ you know? Oh, hey. Could 'Pops' be your dear daddy?" She looks up at Deucalion and smiles, too sharp. "Maybe Ennis doesn't need to write that letter after all."

Derek fights the urge to tell her to do it, hopes that someone else will instead. But no, this time it's Aiden that ruins the moment.

"Can't they triangulate a phone call?"

Stiles stiffens on the floor, drawing Kali's attention. "Aww, is that what you were hoping for, little one? That we'd make a call and alert the authorities to your location?"

"One can hope," Stiles grits out between his teeth, eyes locked warily on her feet.

"Too bad. Hmm, let's see… oh. Sex God? Really?" Her gaze bounces over to Derek again, consideringly. "It's a New York number. Who's the sex god, Stilinski?"

"My old roommate at the Academy."

Fuck. It _is_ Derek. If she calls the number, she'll get a temporarily disconnected notice, which… isn't the worst — that would be Derek's old voice mail message which was clearly his voice, even if it wasn't his alias — but wouldn't help with the suspicions everyone seems to be harboring here. He holds his breath until her hovering thumb goes back to scrolling.

"Teen Wolf?" Kali turns to cast an incredulous look at Stiles, who just shrugs. 

"It makes sense in context. My best friend. He's a vet. Although I guess I should upgrade him to Adult Wolf now, but he's been Teen Wolf in my phone since high school, so…" He shrugs, a 'what can you do?' expression.

"The movie was stupid," Aiden says.

"They made a TV series out of it." There's a hint of appreciation in Ethan's voice. "The actors lost their shirts every episode."

Stiles nods, playing along with the conversation. It occurs to Derek that he's buying time, but in his own panic, he's not really capable of figuring out _why_. 

"Yeah, the show started out pretty good, but fell apart. So many potentially awesome characters were wasted by that writing."

"Nobody asked you," Ennis growls, which is just about when the penny drops.

The sound of sirens that had been faraway — and is omnipresent in this area of Queens — gets closer until it's obvious that the police are right outside the building. When everyone else goes still, Derek draws his gun and charges… toward Stiles.

He yells various obscenities at Stiles as he yanks him up, pointing the barrel of his gun under Stiles' chin. Then he stops, winks, and swivels around, keeping Stiles at his back and using his own body as a human shield. He points his gun at Deucalion, finger on the trigger because even though everyone else is armed and has the gift of sight, he knows Deucalion is the biggest threat.

Despite the chaos of it all, the room goes quiet, everyone's eyes locked on Derek's gun barrel which doesn't waver a fraction. 

"What do you think you're doing, Reyes?" Ennis asks, his voice a low, warning growl.

"It's Hale, actually," Derek says. And then, because he has to do this right even if it all goes to shit, he says, "FBI. You're all under arrest."

Aiden pulls out his gun and points it at Derek, but Deucalion's hand on his arm stops him. "Killing a federal agent with the police on scene is not a smart move, dear boy," Deucalion says. 

Unfortunately, while watching Deucalion, Derek took his eyes off Ennis, who uses that opportunity to shoot Derek. It's Stiles at his back, jostling him, that sends the bullet into his shoulder instead of hitting him in a vital area. 

The pain is a scorching fire in his left shoulder, making him drop his right hand — and his gun — for the second it takes Deucalion to draw and fire. Thankfully, he's aiming for Ennis, not Derek.

"I cannot abide stupidity." Deucalion sighs as Ennis' body hits the floor and Kali starts screeching. "Did he actually hit anyone or did I just waste a bullet?"

Aiden answers him, helpful as always, even in this moment. "He got Reyes in the shoulder. Hale? Derek. Whatever his name is."

"Dominant?"

"Uh, doesn't look like it."

Deucalion lets out a little huff of frustration. "Agent Hale, do you mind if I put another bullet in Mr. Davis?"

Derek grits his teeth, concentrating until he can ignore the throb in his shoulder. "That's inadvisable. You've already got two counts of murder today. I would actually prefer that everyone disarm themselves. Guns on the table over there, kneel on the floor with your hands behind your head."

It's a long shot, but he can already hear the battering rams being used on the door downstairs. Hopefully, the remaining two Alphas — and the twins — will be smart enough to follow his orders before the place floods with police. The twins both drop their weapons on the ground, which isn't where he asked for them, but as long as they don't go for them, he's happy.

But Kali has recovered from the shock of her lover being shot right in front of her, and turns on Deucalion. "I'm going to rip your throat out," she promises. "Rip it out and bathe in your blood, you son of a bitch!"

"With what? Your teeth?" Stiles asks.

Kali turns to hiss at Stiles, who automatically shrinks back behind Derek. "Okay, yes, you're terrifying. Good job."

"How did you alert the police?" Derek asks, honestly curious, as he shuffles them the few feet over toward the couch. He wants to get Stiles off his feet and he's in enough pain himself that sitting might help him maintain his aim.

"Dude, oh my god. I thought that guy over there was going to give it away when he talked about triangulating. You know most phones can be tracked, right? As long as they're on? Hell, the dead guy knew that. He made me keep my hands where he could see them the whole time so I couldn't even attempt to turn on my phone from inside my pocket." 

Derek blinks at the simplicity of it all. "Jesus, I didn't even think about that." They've made it to the couch, and Derek kicks it pointedly.

"Eh, you had other things on your mind. I'm the cyber geek. It's literally my job to know tech." Stiles goes to sit, then seems to think better of it, limping around the couch. "I think I'm just going to stand back here and lean on the back. Take some of the weight off my foot. Every time I get up and down, I want to die a little more."

Derek nods, and drops down, resting his arm on his knee to take some of the pressure off his shoulder. The other hand holds tight to his gun, the barrel not wavering even a second.

"Shut up!" Kali screeches at Stiles. Then she drops her pleading eyes to Derek. "Let me kill him. Please, let me kill Deucalion."

Derek actually stops to think about that, but he's not going to let Deucalion off that easy. He's going to make sure Deucalion spends the rest of his life in jail instead. 

"If you really want revenge," he offers, "you could just testify against him. Give the FBI a confession with all the dates and times and account numbers… help us put Duke away."

"He doesn't deserve to live!" She goes for her gun just as the first SWAT officer comes through the door and shoots _her_ in the shoulder. The one holding onto her gun so that it drops from her suddenly non-working fingers.

Derek keeps his gun trained on Deucalion but begins identifying himself and Stiles to every new person that enters the room. He waits until Kali, Deucalion, and the twins have been frisked and are in handcuffs, being led from the room, before he offers his own weapon to one of the CSI officers who have swarmed the area to start preserving the scene.

Stiles leans against his back, and Derek can feel how shaky he is. Or maybe it's Derek that's shaking. Fuck, that was tense.

"Did I just accidentally screw a two year investigation?"

Derek turns, grimacing as he's reminded of his injured shoulder. "No. Even if the investigation _had_ been screwed, it wouldn't be your fault. But actually, we were wrapping it all up today anyway. There were two major shipments coming in and these idiots put my imbedded agent in charge of receiving them. Even if Daehler hadn't kidnapped you, the FBI would have been here in force in about an hour anyway. We have everything we need to put these bastards away for a very long time."

Stiles pulls back to look at Derek. "Wait. Really? That's absurdly convenient." He narrows his eyes, tilting his head. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." Derek stands up and walks around the couch, puts his good shoulder under Stiles' arm, and helps him to limp toward the door. "Now, let's go find the nearest EMT. We deserve a few shots of morphine after this clusterfuck of stupidity."

* * *

Two weeks later, almost to the hour, Derek wipes his sweaty palm down the legs of his jeans before lifting his fist to the door in front of him and giving a brisk knock. The wait is unbearable, but when the door finally opens to show Stiles in old boxers and a ratty t-shirt, Derek can only smile, big and bright.

"Hi." He's got a thousand different conversations planned for this moment, but all of them disappear when Stiles lets out a whoop and literally leaps on him, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist and pulling him into a kiss that barely connects because Derek is staggering under Stiles' weight and trying like hell not to jostle Stiles' bandaged foot. "Ow, injured shoulder." Which, considering it's still in a sling, should have been obvious, but he's willing to forgive and forget.

"Hi. Oh my god, sorry. That hurt _me_ like hell, but I was already mid-air before the pain hit," Stiles says, sliding down, the words muffled because he's trying to talk and kiss at the same time, which would be ridiculous, but Derek is somehow still used to it all these years later. "You're here. How are you here? Do I care? I don't care. Ignore me, I really don't care. Fuck me quick before you have to go home. If you _can_ because, hello, shoulder injury."

"I don't give a fuck about my shoulder, but you're gonna have to lead the way to your bedroom," Derek says, squeezing Stiles' ass where he's gripping tight because he's kind of addicted to Stiles' ass. Just a little bit.

Stiles lets out a bark of laughter, sucks one more quick kiss from Derek's lips, and then turns and hobbles toward one of two doors off the main room. When he throws the door open with a flourish, though, Derek does a double-take.

"What the hell, Stiles? Your dad is literally the President of the United States. Why are you sleeping on a twin?"

Cheeks going blotchy with a flush, Stiles shrugs, a bit defensive, and says, "What? They grew on me. Besides, it's not like I’ve had a steady stream of bed partners."

Derek goes still and turns toward Stiles. "Why _not_? I mean, I'm not complaining. But you're…" Derek indicates Stiles' everything, which is all long, lean, gorgeous lines covering the smartest person Derek's ever met.

Plus, he's famous. That's gotta be worth at least one Hollywood celeb or two.

"Well, for one thing, I don't like to give the tabloids ammo against my dad—"

"Oh, shit." Derek's pulse pounds as anxiety floods him. It had never actually occurred to him that he might somehow be party to jeopardizing the President's political career. Or how that might affect Stiles, which is stupid of Derek. He _just_ had to run the gauntlet of Secret Service agents to get the opportunity to knock on Stiles' door, after all. The only reason they'd let him through was the badge on his belt and the fact that he'd been the one to carry Stiles out of the Alphas’ compound.

Which is kind of why he's here to begin with, honestly. That kind of international news coverage didn't allow for anything like normal day-to-day Bureau operations to continue for Derek.

"Shut up, asshole. You're never going to be a headline I'll regret. Fuck, if they ever catch us, I'll wallpaper the living room with newsprint."

Derek blinks in feigned shock, placing his good hand over his heart. "You'd buy a physical newspaper? For me? I'm touched."

Stiles' laughter is loud and bright, his head thrown back with it. "I mean," Stiles finally says, when his laughter has petered away to chuckles, "I'll probably just print out the online edition. Or maybe take screenshots and buy one of those digital photo frames and mount it on the—"

Derek kisses the ridiculous words right off Stiles' tongue, because he _can_ and also because he's _here_ and doesn't have to even think about leaving until he has to report to Quantico on Monday at 8. He should probably stop long enough to let Stiles know that he's accepted an official transfer while the case in New York goes to the courts, but that would require taking his mouth off of Stiles, and he just can't bring himself to do that yet.

After all, it's not like Stiles won't want to indulge in pillow talk. Derek'll tell him then. It'll give them a celebratory reason for round two.

Derek's new goal in life is to break that twin bed so he can move his king size into its place. Through all the years and the miles between them, their lives have finally merged together less than twenty miles from where they started so long ago. Derek's got Stiles in his arms now, and he has no plans to ever let him go again.


	4. CrimsonMuzzle's Art for Five Years and a Handful of Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us both on our tumblrs at [Eeyore9990](eeyore9990.tumblr.com) and [crimsonmuzzle](crimsonmuzzle.tumblr.com).


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